Aubrey's Vigil excerpt # 1

            John Aubrey was four years old when his mother scooted him through the backdoor one clear November evening, out from underfoot while she prepared supper.  John had the backyard to himself, none of his brothers and sisters nearby to keep an eye on him.  There wasn’t much for him to get into.  The soft ripe chinaberries for which John had developed a fancy, no longer littered the ground in the back corner of the lot.  A solid picket fence was there to keep him reined in.  Mary clearly remembered the rope on the gate looped over the top of the fence post, too high for him to reach.  The gate straddled the back trail that led up steeply beyond, onto one of the hillsides that formed Bennett Holler.

            So he was left alone, Mary rushing back to fry some sweet potato slices.  She prepared ham and cabbage that night – she recounted it for years – cornbread, field peas and sweet potatoes.  Twenty minutes later Nell showed up and Mary asked her to fetch in John.

            Nell found the backyard empty.  She moped back into the kitchen, plaiting her hair at the side of her breast.   "He ain't out there," she announced.  Mary stepped to the door.   She surveyed the yard.  Spotting the open gate, she let out a shriek that stiffened little Nell's body. 

            "Git your daddy, Nell, John's done wandered off up the mount'n."

            Stuart Aubrey and his eldest, Lamar, were just home from the quarry, washing themselves at the well spigot when Nell came running.  She had not spoken a word before they heard Mary calling for John.   They took note of the fear in her voice, trotting around back.  Martin and Kate showed up about that time, too.  The whole family spread out, searching the fenced yard and the cleared land.  Calling out for John Farris Aubrey.   

            Stuart ventured a short way up the path that led to the mountaintop.  The deeper into the woods, the darker grew the path.  He studied the sun over his left shoulder.  It was wallowing between the west hills, near to treetop level.  He let out a whistle that brought his wife and children running.

            "Looks like he went up the mount'n."

            "Oh, Lordy," said Mary Aubrey.
            "Lamar, git the Tuckers.  Martin, you git Horace Stringfeller.  Mamie, too, if she'll come," said Stuart.  "Tell 'em to bring some lanterns," he called out behind them.  "We got to find him soon.  It'll be down aroun'  freezin' tonight."

            "How could he've gotten out?" Mary asked.  "I checked the latch – "

            Stuart’s look cut Mary short.  Nell grabbed her mother around her knees and began to whine.

            "Shush, little Nell,” Stuart told her.  “Don't worry.  We'll find John.  You go in the house with your mama."

            Mary met Stuart's eyes.  "I got to help look."

            "Put away supper.  Make us some coffee.  When Lamar comes back, tell him to go to Miss Wimberley's an' borrow her telephone.  Tell him to call the doctor.  Lewis an' Jimmy, too."

            "Stuart – "

            "You'll git your turn.  None of us can stay out all night ... if it comes to that."

            The three families of Bennett Holler showed up to search for John.  Runt Tucker and Ivy with two of their boys; Horace and Mamie Stringfellow, the black family who lived just across the vale.  Mamie was the midwife who had delivered John the night the bridge washed out, stranding Doctor Peterson on the far side of Stone River.  Ivy Tucker and Mamie took over Mary's kitchen work so she could join the search.  The rest of the folks took up into the woods, scouring the hillsides, lanterns held high, voices echoing across the hollow.

            
            The night was clear, but it was close to a new moon and the woods were thick and black.  From the Aubrey's back porch, Nell could see the lanterns above her flickering among the hardwoods and dense pines.  The voices hollering out, coming down unanswered, were chilling to the spirit as the night stretched out cold and bitter.  Searchers trooped down every so often for coffee and biscuits.  Some asked for a coat or an extra shirt.  Stuart couldn‘t make himself put on a coat, knowing little John was somewhere on the mountain in his shirtsleeves. 

            More people arrived the early morning hours.  Sheriff Hall rousted out the Bertram Volunteer Fire Department.  Doctor Peterson, too old to search, waited on the ready.  He had the women keep the fire stoked high, blankets warmed, water hot on the stove.  Close to sunrise, the searchers gathered on the back porch, faces exhausted, eyes narrow and fearful.  Some of the women were close to tears.  The feed store thermometer on the Aubrey back porch read 25 degrees.
             The searchers took an account of themselves and found only Horace Stringfellow still on the hillside.  Mary collapsed on the steps and they carried her into her bedroom.   They sat Stuart down in a chair.  Preacher Mayfield prayed for John, down on one knee, his hand clamped on Stuart's forearm.   Lewis Aubrey talked to his brother about going inside to lie down.  Sheriff Hall and some others discussed the situation in hushed tones among themselves, trying to agree on a plan of action.

            It was at that moment that Horace Stringfellow, low on the hillside and toward the east, let out a howl that penetrated the heart of every person gathered at that farmhouse.  They strained to hear a second call....  It came.  No one could make it out, the words nor the import of it.  There came another cry, sounding closer than before.   Red Phelps, at the back gate and partially up the slope, was the one that heard it first.  "He fount 'im!" Red shouted.  "God Al'mighty, he fount 'im."

            A cry was torn from every throat, but cut short by another call from the hillside.  Deathly quiet prevailed.  "What's 'at?" asked Red aloud.  "I cain't make it out."  Again Horace called in the distance.

            "He said, he's alive!" shouted Lamar Aubrey who had run farther up the slope.  He hustled up the path, followed by the hardiest of the searchers.  Most folks were rooted where they stood.  They heard a shout from Lamar, then others and Horace came into view, fairly leaping down the mountain path, all smiles, little John in his arms, peeking out curiously at the gathering below.  Everyone clustered at the back gate where Horace handed John straight into his father's arms.  The crowd parted to let Stuart through to the porch.  Mary had just come out the back door and she grabbed up her son, squeezing him to her breast, yielding her hold only at the insistence of Doctor Peterson who brought the boy into the warm kitchen.  His large, gnarled hands expertly examined him.  John sat quietly, wondrous at all the commotion.   The doctor pronounced to the crowd:  "Healthy as a horse."  A cheer went up and the celebration commenced, hugs and handshakes, claps on the back, folks laughing themselves into tears. 

            The doctor took Stuart to one side.  His voice was level and calm:  "Sump'm' strange here, Stuart.  That boy spent twelve frozen hours up there on the mount'n.  An' come out like he'd been for a stroll through the peach grove."

            Stuart eyed his son, wrapped in his mother's arms.  "What you thinkin'?"

            "Damned if I know," said the doctor.  "See if you can git a story from him.  I'd like to know what he tells you."

            They never got much from John.  Nothing that made sense.  As a rule, John was a talkative child, but asked about that night on the mountain, he drew up silent.  He seemed somewhat confused about it.  Why he didn't answer when the folks were calling him?  John would shrug his shoulders.  He answered Mr. Horace.  Had he been scared?  Nope. Cold?  He'd shake his head.  You were lost all night, John.  He said no.  He wasn’t lost. I wasn’t gone but just a minute, he said.   He'd been with Mister Horace, up on the hill".

            The story grew with the telling until it became not only a part of the Aubrey lore, but part of those hills and hollows, a part of Marlow County, a story told in various forms all through North Georgia about a boy named John Aubrey who was lost, then miraculously found, surviving a night on the mountain among the foxes and bears, without a scratch or scrape, without fever or chill.  Most people told the story straight – just to marvel at the child's providence.  Of course, there were others who never heard a story they couldn't make more daring and marvelous.  The name John Aubrey settled into the depths of many a folk's mind, a name perhaps forgotten with time but still familiar and somehow faintly wondrous.